Chapter 1

CHAPTER 1

A melia’s fingertips tingled as she stepped out of the carriage.

She fisted them into her hands to soothe their unease while she swiveled her head from side to side, expecting a presence lurking in the shadows.

All she saw was a line of carriages extending down the drive.

It seemed she was not the only one interested in the mysterious Blackwood art collection.

Although knowing London society, it was not the collection most of them were interested in, but rather the owner of it all. The Earl of Blackwood – as much of an enigma as the house and the display itself.

Amelia reached into the hidden pocket of her dress, running her fingers over the smooth parchment that had arrived at her door two weeks ago, inviting her to the art exhibition ball.

She had a feeling that she had not been invited for her social status.

Her lips curled into a smile as she ascended the steps of the great house, which stood on the rise overlooking all of Hamstead. The earl was so rarely seen in the city that Amelia guessed he appreciated his family’s London home was a good six miles from the heart of London.

Not that any of it mattered to Amelia.

She was here for another purpose entirely.

She had much to pay for – the carriage ride here, the toll she’d had to pay at the Spaniard’s Inn to cross into Hampton, and most importantly, the crimson gown she had purchased specifically for this evening. It had better all be worth it.

“Good evening,” the butler greeted her as he took her cloak. The slight widening of his eyes was the only suggestion that her dress might not be what was expected at such a gathering.

She had not, however, intended to fit in.

“Good evening,” she responded, her gaze already drifting around the foyer, noting the light from the candles notched into the chandelier, dancing over the room as it reflected off of the elaborate formation of crystals.

Her slippers slid over the polished marble beneath her feet, and while this was all designed for opulence, she couldn’t help but note that the gilded accents of the room’s paneling were chipped, the paint of the pale pink walls faded, and the carpet up the sweeping staircase was worn with footsteps.

Perhaps there was a reason the earl was holding this surprising art exhibition.

“Amelia Lennox, is that you?”

A smile burst onto Amelia’s face as she turned toward the voice behind her.

Charlie Bastian had just walked through the door, curling his mustache as he stepped toward her and enveloped her in a warm embrace that met with the disapproval of the couple who had walked in behind him, their noses upturned at such a display.

Amelia only prolonged the hold and smiled wickedly at them.

The woman gasped, and Amelia grinned even harder. It served her right.

Finally, Charlie released her and held her before him, his hands on her shoulders.

“Am I glad to see you! It’s been weeks!”

“I know, far too long,” she agreed. Charlie always lifted her spirits, and she should have sought him out earlier.

“You missed our last meeting,” he said, his tone both hurt and accusatory at the same time.

“I know, Charlie. I am sorry for that,” she said. “I had a job to finish.”

If only that were true. In actuality, it was becoming increasingly difficult for her to hide her truth when she met with the conventional artists.

She didn’t fit there – nor did she fit entirely at her other meetings, for she took as much pride in the creative aspects of her work as she did in the elemental.

“Well, do come next time, all right? You provide beauty there – and I am not just talking about your artwork.”

When he winked, she jokingly rolled her eyes and took the arm he offered her, allowing him to lead her into the front parlor and through what was proving to be one of the most eclectic group of people she had ever seen together in one room – and that was saying a lot.

“What do you think we’re doing here?” she asked as they were handed cups of what she realized, upon her first sip, was one of the finest wines she had ever tasted.

“My invitation said it was an art exhibition,” Charlie murmured, looking around them and waving to another of their acquaintances who stood across the room in front of one of the high sash windows. “However, you would think that an earl’s art exhibition would draw fellow nobles and patrons – not artists themselves.”

“Only those of us well known for our talents are present.”

“Nothing but the best for an earl,” Charlie quipped.

“Do you think he is interested in adding to his collection?” she asked, her heartbeat increasing. She could only hope that was the case. A commission from an earl would go a long way in covering her expenses – most notably, her accommodations. She had no wish to move from Soho.

If she didn’t have a commission soon, she would have to return to her less… savory methods of making money.

Although it was nothing she hadn’t done before.

Her gaze roved around the room in search of the earl. She knew him only by reputation, and yet, she had a feeling that she would know him when she saw him. A man with such a collection as that in front of her – statues, paintings, and tapestries, most strategically aligned above the paneling or placed in front of the pale blue walls – would likely have a commanding air about him.

She had heard he was formidable, yet wondered what secrets he might hide.

Secrets she could learn and use for her own gain if she must, even though the thought of doing so already caused her stomach to churn.

She would have a lot of compensation to do to make up for it. Perhaps she could paint him something that would ease the loss.

Even if he didn’t hire her tonight, she had options.

Charlie appeared to read her mind – although, thankfully, not the whole of it – as he leaned in. “I must leave you for a moment to speak to Mr. and Mrs. Anderson. I’ve heard they are looking for an artist to paint their entire family.”

“This is quite the opportunity to meet and connect with patrons, is it not?” she murmured.

“Yes,” he said with a wink. “I best go before you beat me to it and convince Mr. Anderson to hire you with that wicked gown of yours.”

Amelia scoffed as she watched him go. He was talented, yes, but let him have the family portraits. She far preferred commissions that gave her more freedom than capturing the likeness of the person paying for the commission.

That never ended well, as, in her experience, the subjects often saw themselves in a much different light than they appeared.

Even if the artist could influence their emotions.

She should likely take Charlie’s advice and meet potential patrons, but her feet seemed to have their own mind as she wandered out of the central area and toward the back of the house. The gallery had been set up in what she guessed was usually a parlor, while music emanated from a back room that was more likely a ballroom.

Amelia, however, had no time or interest in dancing.

Instead, she was drawn to explore the dark corners at the back of the house. She pushed open a door that was only slightly ajar, entering what appeared to be a study, one that immediately wrapped her in its quiet elegance and intellectual sophistication.

Rich, dark wood paneling lined the walls, creating a sense of warmth. The polished hardwood appeared to have been covered by a rug in the past, judging by the darker square on the floor beneath her. An imposing mahogany desk, its legs covered with intricate carvings and its polished surface with a quill, inkstand, and elegantly bound journal, was one of the only pieces of furniture in the room, the high-backed leather chair behind it and the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, the others.

The heavy velvet drapes were closed while one oil lamp burned in its sconce on the wall, casting a flickering glow over the easel sitting in the center of the room.

Even if it hadn’t been so prominently featured, Amelia would have been drawn to it.

Any person would have noted the beauty of the woman within it, dressed in rich, striking attire that Amelia would guess was from half a century ago, although she was no expert in fashions.

An art enthusiast would have commented on the portrait’s damage, the cracks in the paint, the areas where the colors had faded.

Any artist would have noted the realistic style of the painting, with its intricate details and rich colors. The brushwork was masterful, capturing the light to give the portrait almost a lifelike quality.

But only Amelia would sense the painting's subtle, ethereal aura. The redheaded woman’s serene expression on the surface held the emotion of the entire painting, the undercurrent of sadness or anger hinting at the turmoil she had experienced.

If Amelia was correct with her guess, that was.

She should not have been in the private study and was aware that this painting had likely been omitted from the gallery for a reason, but she couldn’t pull herself away.

As she moved from side to side, the woman’s eyes seemed to follow her, and Amelia leaned in as the painting drew her closer. “Who are you?” she whispered, expecting her question to be rhetorical.

Which was why she jumped nearly a foot in the air when she received a response.

Lord Maximillian Waverly, the Earl of Blackwood, moved through his guests with more ease than he felt.

He supposed that was because they allowed him through – not because he was doing so out of his own choice.

No, if he had his way, he would not be here tonight, and none of these people would have stepped foot in his house to ogle his priceless pieces of artwork.

But his artwork was all that stood between him and ruin, so here they were. Patrons to admire his work and, hopefully, make him offers that he could discreetly accept without putting any of his pieces on sale or up for auction.

To do so would only advertise the fact that he had nothing left.

And he preferred to keep his family’s secrets just that – secret.

No one needed to know the lengths he had to go to cover up the family's debts.

For every investment, every hand of cards – hell, every plot of land – had come to absolutely nothing over the past thirty years.

All of the wealth his family had once held was gone, the former opulence crumbling.

The only properties left were this London house and the Blackwood Estate, where he preferred to spend most of his time. The servants were kept to a minimum, and the furnishings were worn and bare.

Then his second purpose for this evening – to find an artist worthy enough to restore the painting he hoped to be rid of. A painting that could become fine enough in its richness to fetch a reasonable price and, hopefully, rid him of the curse that had plagued his family ever since it had been cast all those years ago.

He damned the woman in the portrait. He damned the love that had led to the falling out. He damned the father who had caused such pain.

It had left him with absolutely nothing but the wreckage and the responsibility to right it all.

He had no choice.

And all of these family secrets? They would die with him. He would make certain of it.

“Lord Blackwood, there you are!”

He turned, forcing a smile onto his face as one of his mother’s closest friends wrapped her hand around his arm.

“Lady Grantham, how are you?”

“Very well,” she said, her eyes running over him as though assessing his health. “We had to attend when we received your invitation, although I must say, I was shocked that you would have all of these priceless pieces of art on display.”

“Why should I be the only one to enjoy them?” he asked, raising a brow, hoping that would quell her curiosity, but apparently not.

“What would your mother think of this?” she said before leaning in slightly and lowering her voice. “There are all kinds of people here.”

“I know,” he said, leaning down conspiratorially. “I invited them.”

He smiled at her shock of outrage, having to contain his chuckle.

She looked behind her as her husband walked up, as unfazed as ever.

“Lord Blackwood,” he greeted Max, who returned his nod. “You have some lovely pieces here. Are they for sale?”

“No,” Max said, which of course only caused interest to rise in the couple’s faces. Exactly what he was hoping for. “If you will excuse me, I must see to a pressing matter. Please enjoy yourselves.”

Gripping a glass of the last cask of wine from the cellar in his hand, he left the parlor, passing by the ballroom where society was amusing themselves on finally seeing behind the curtain he had cast over his house and his life.

Let them look. What did he care anymore?

He needed a reprieve, if only for a moment. He wished he could find his bedchamber, but then he would need to climb the front staircase where he might be seen. Instead, he would have to take refuge in the study – even if it meant sharing it with her .

He pushed through the door, expecting to be greeted by the seagreen eyes that had haunted him for the past twenty years.

But those were not the eyes that greeted him.

No, these belonged to another woman.

One who was just as captivating.

And, he felt deep within his soul, just as dangerous.